


You're A Failure

by Monaro



Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monaro/pseuds/Monaro
Summary: Topham Hatt I inspects his new engine, which seems to be one problem after another.A small vignette based on a line Solmon wrote on Twitter.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	You're A Failure

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Henry Mk. 1 Artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/773082) by SolmonYoutuber. 



Topham huddled in the cold. It was an early morning in February, cold as hell, and he’d been woken by a phone call from Vicarstown. So, he’d driven all the way out in the icy weather, heater blasting, to see what was the matter. His receding hair lay in a tangle under a flat cap, dressed in an old corduroy coat and overalls.  
  
“Well, Mr. Walsh? What’s the matter, then?”

The big green engine- the bloody swindle- lay sideways. He’d slid in the ditch coming out of the yard and blocked everything in and out. Trains would be delayed for sure.

Mr. Walsh, an inspector with a side-part and a walrus moustache, gestured to the green Pacific. “He’s come off again, sir.”

Topham Hatt crossed his arms. “And?”

“That’s not all. I’ve discovered something. Come, look at this.” Walsh began trudging over to the upturned engine; Topham followed. He gestured to the frames, exposed now. “Now, I’m not sure, but I have a theory.. Look here- his frames look rather thin thin.”

Hatt bent in- He was right. “Indeed…”

“And that’s not all,” added Walsh. He’d produced a small stick, and gestured with it. “His frame’s already cracked. His builder tried to rivet it back together- you see here?”

“I do.”

“Furthermore, he’s cracked a cylinder rolling over. His cylinder walls are much too thin- and he has bad gaskets. You should see him coming out of the station.”

The engine moaned softly. Topham adjusted his cap.

“Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it.”

“He’s built on the cheap, sir,” Walsh insisted, obviously not enjoying this dialogue, “Whoever built him cut a lot of corners.. Where’d you pick him up, anyhow?”

Topham’s gaze was like knives. “I’d rather not say.”

Walsh met his gaze evenly. “He’s a new design,” he insisted, “Very modern- flawed, but powerful.. Maybe even efficient.. But the construction is all wrong.”

Topham was not pleased. “Well, Dick, what do you suggest?”

Walsh scratched at his moustache- he had gray coming in. “...Scrap?”

The engine gasped audibly, and Topham considered it.

“No, that won’t do.. He’s much too dear to us.” Personally, Hatt was disgusted more and more by this engine and its needless agony, but the beast was still bigger than Edward. The trains were getting longer, and a Pacific like No. 3 was hard to come by. “What else. What are our options.”

“Complete rebuild,” suggested Walsh, “But it’ll cost us.”

Hatt wished more and more he’d never bought the brute. “ _ Realistic _ options.”

Walsh met his gaze again. “It’s this, or scrap, Hatt,” he insisted, “Unless a rebuild can be afforded, I’m afraid our effort is total failure.” He looked toward number three, and gritted his teeth. Looks like Walsh didn’t enjoy dealing with him either. His boot dug restlessly at the gravel.

“Spare a prayer for him this Sunday; only the  _ Lord, _ in His infinite wisdom could figure out what to do with this tub.”

Topham clenched at that. “Don’t take the piss, Dick.” For God’s sake, he was right there. He produced a cigarette, and lit it with a trembling match. He surveyed the scene- the engine, mostly cold now, shivering on its side; the station beyond- a small structure made of wood, hastily assembled during the War- would need to be replaced- the sheds, where an ancient grey tank engine rode the turntable. Seems like half the engines around here were destined for the scrapper- but he kept them on anyways. Trains needed to run, and money was tight. The war boom had built them up, and now, it seemed, the traffic had gone.

And now this- Now, dreadful No. 3, wheezing and moaning like a consumptive. A steal of a deal for good reason- an equally pitiful and hateful sight. Why would any builder put such a wreck to cursed life? It was inhumane; the engine was a Habsburg prince, drawn from the Great Northern’s Atlantic gene pool.

But unlike a Habsburg, Topham could fix him.

Finishing his cigarette, Topham ground it under his heel, and turned to Walsh. “Alright,” he began, sighing, “I’ll speak to the crews- The ones who run him the most. I’ll see what can be done. In the meantime, get him back on the rails and shunt him into the permanent way shed. We need our engines out and running- some money to pay for him.”

Walsh nodded. “Breakdown gang’s on its way.”

“They should have been here before me,” Topham scolded- and he trudged back to his car. No sense going back to bed now; he’d get right to work. 

Nowadays, eight-hour days seemed like a fairytale.


End file.
